


unseeing

by ghostfaeries



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne-centric, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dead Jason Todd, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, I'm sorry this is just angst, Jason doesnt physically show up but this entire fic is about him so i added him, My love of repetition took over, No Dialogue, Poetry, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, bruce...is not coping well, hes not a bad dad hes just trying to keep his distance so he doesnt get attached, kind of? its poetic ig, theyre both a little broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostfaeries/pseuds/ghostfaeries
Summary: Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, No Romantic Relationship(s), Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 21
Kudos: 117





	unseeing

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea how this happened. I was working on a different fic that's also set during Jason's death (sorry bby) and I thought of this. In the early days, Bruce probably kept forgetting Robin was not Jason. He forgot he'd lost him. I...can speak from experience.  
> I was listening to Hozier the entire time I was writing this. Do with that what you will
> 
> As I already said in the tags, this is only angst. There's no hurt, no healing. I'm sorry. Tread carefully.
> 
> Oh, I didn't tag this with major character death since it doesn't happen in the fic itself, but it is about that, so if I need to change that, lemme know
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: don't interact with this work if you ship any of the batsiblings with each other (so Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Duke and Cass) as it makes me deeply uncomfortable. Just leave now, please
> 
> Have fun reading!

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason.

He saw Jason in the bright grin Tim wore when he managed to make Bruce proud.

(He didn’t know it, but Bruce was always proud, so proud, so, so proud of his little Robin, his  babybird . His son.)

(When had he started thinking of Tim as his son?)

He saw Jason in the childlike innocence that graced Tim’s eyes sometimes, not yet corrupted by the world, somehow, despite all they had seen.

(Bruce wished they hadn’t had to grow up so quickly, way too quickly. They were so young.  _ He  _ had been so young.)

He saw Jason in the unapologetic enthusiasm in Tim’s voice when he talked about his interests, about coding and cases, the same way Jason talked about literature.

(They were so passionate, his boys. So full of life, of wonder.)

He saw Jason in the small stature being dwarfed by Bruce’s body, so small, but not afraid, never afraid. Not of him.

(Bruce would never forgive himself if he were the source of his boys’ fear. Never. He’d die before he laid a hand on them.)

He saw Jason in the hair that faded into the shadows of the night, dark and inky, unruly in the way only a teenage boy’s hair could be.

(He wished he could stroke Tim’s hair the way he did Jason’s, but he couldn’t. He was not Tim’s dad, he reminded himself. Tim had a dad. Tim was not his son. He wished- No.)

He saw Jason in the brightness of his eyes, an ocean sparkling with mirth and mischief.

(No matter how hard things were, Robin’s eyes were always bright. The light to Batman’s dark.)

He saw Jason in the longing to do good, to protect, to save.

(Batman needed Robin to remind him why he does what he does.)

He saw Jason in the selflessness, the way his boys threw themselves into danger to shield innocents.

(It frightened him, sometimes, the way they disregarded their own safety to protect others. It’d been fatal to Jason. Bruce would make sure that would never happen again. He would protect Tim the way Tim protected civilians. Never again.)

He saw Jason when he heard the ticking, the same kind of ticking he knew had been the last sound he’d heard, and this time he was determined not to let it happen again. He wouldn’t fail a son again.

(Not again, not again, not again.)

He saw what could have been when he unwrapped Tim from his cape, from his clutch, unharmed and safe and here.

(Safe, safe, safe.)

He saw a Jason that would never get to exist, to be, to survive. To live.

He saw Jason when he closed his eyes, strong, brave, smart, scared, bloodied, broken, gone.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason. He was happy to live the lie.

(He wasn’t.)

* * *

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason. Tim knew that.

He knew it in the way Bruce sometimes hesitated when saying his name, as if a different one had been laying on his tongue, the name of a boy that was no more. A boy that was not Tim.

He knew it in the way Bruce sometimes said Robin. His voice was different, lighter, not weighed down by the burden of a child’s lifeless, broken body in adult arms stained by someone else’s blood, a child’s body in a small, way too small, coffin. When he called him Robin sometimes, Tim knew Bruce wasn’t talking to him.

Sometimes his voice was confident, as if there was no question about which Robin was next to Batman. As if Jason had never died at all.

Sometimes, his voice was hopeful, anticipating, as if he knew in the back of his mind, that the person he wanted to stand there next to him would not be there. As if he knew, but hoped anyway. He tried to hide it, but Tim had spent too long analysing Batman, and he could hear the disappointment that crept into his voice.

Sometimes, his voice was filled with pain, as if he was aware who was behind the mask, a painful reminder of who wasn’t.

Sometimes, his voice showed no emotion at all. These were the worst times, because Tim knew all the pain and hurt was there, supressed but not tamed, emotions shoved away in a far corner of his mind, ready to lash out again at any moment, given the chance.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason. Tim knew that.

He knew it in the way Bruce reached for him, sometimes, moving in to ruffle his hair, stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead. The actions of a father to a son. Not a mourning man to a kid who shoved his way into his life, ignoring the hands of those who’d tried to stop him.

He knew it in the way Bruce’s hand suddenly stilled, inches before his skin, when he remembered it was Tim who was standing in front of him.

He knew it in the way Bruce quickly retracted his hand, as if he’d been burned.

He knew it in the way Bruce briskly turned around and walked away, shoulders tense.

He knew it in the way Bruce leaped for him when the room started ticking, the way he grabbed him, curled around him, protected him.

He knew it in the way Bruce looked at him, then, after.

He knew it in the way Bruce’s eyes filled with relief, with regret, with hopeless wishes and longing.

He knew it in the way Bruce’s arms tightened around him, holding.

He knew it in the way Bruce looked at the glass case when they got back, scarred in more ways than from the wounds inflicted by the shrapnel sticking out of his skin.

He knew it in the way Bruce averted his gaze away from Tim’s face when he patched him up.

He knew it in the way Bruce avoided looking at the familiar green-yellow-red of his costume, familiar but so different.

He knew it in the way Bruce tensed up when he noticed the blood splatters on that same costume, knew he was thinking of a different costume with the same colours, green, yellow, red. Red, red, red, red, red.

He knew it in the way Bruce relaxed again when he realised it was his blood, not that of the boy in front of him.

He knew it in the way Bruce locked himself into his office for the rest of the day, refusing to look at the face that was not his son’s. The face of someone he’d almost lost in the exact same way. The face of someone he’d saved, just in time, unlike his son.

(In his dreams, he was never on time, never made it. In his dreams, his face was Jason’s, was Tim’s, was both of them. In his dreams, he cradled two bodies.)

(Sometimes, Tim wished it would’ve been him lost in that explosion, wished he could take Jason’s place, wished he could save Bruce this pain.)

(Bruce could deal with the loss of the neighbour’s kid. He tried to pretend, but Tim knew he couldn’t deal with the loss of his son.)

He knew it in the way Bruce quickly covered the photo album he was looking at when Tim entered his office to attempt to coax him out for dinner. The album was only halfway filled, the rest of the pages void of pictures, the blank paper instead filled with broken dreams and unfulfilled promises of what could have been.

He knew it in the way Bruce embraced him after Tim gave him the pictures he’d taken, before. Before Tim was more than a kid following his heroes over rooftops and through alleyways. Before Bruce had to cradle his child’s broken body. Before a father had to bury a son.

He knew it in the way Bruce buried his face in the black hair belonging to someone else.

He knew it in the way Bruce arms tightened around his body, small now, but with the promise to grow into someone bigger, the way the buried son would never get the chance to.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason. Tim knew that.

Tim didn’t mind. He was happy to give Bruce relief, even for a mere moment. He didn’t mind that Bruce looked at him and saw someone else. Batman needed a Robin. Bruce Wayne needed a son. It was okay. Tim was used to being someone he was not, was used to pretending, was used to being a stand-in for a son. The son his parents wanted him to be, the son Bruce wished he were.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, he saw Jason. Tim knew that, and he was okay with it.

But sometimes, sometimes he wished that when Bruce looked at Tim, it was Tim he saw.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, Tim wished that he would see him, really  _ see him _ . Not the ghost of a son clinging to his features, a whisper of the past hanging over him like an old film, faded and worn, touched with delicate fingers, never holding him close the way he wanted - needed – to be, afraid of shattering the frail image. Afraid of failing - again.

Sometimes, when Bruce looked at Tim, Tim wished it was Tim he saw.

But Bruce just looked right through him, unseeing.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise my usual fics aren't this sad lmao
> 
> This was kind of an experiment with a more poetry like style, I hope you liked it. Tell me what you thought!
> 
> My DC blog: autistic-damian-wayne


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